Mr Stevens
by dharmaharker
Summary: Chronicles Andy's life after his escape, from his journey to Zihuatanejo to his misadventures when he arrives, in the shape of a free-form epic. Rated "T" for references to suicide, death and for mild language.
1. The Beginning

LEE ELIOT PRESENTS

RADLEY GATE PRODUCTIONS

MR. STEVENS

Note: I do not own "The Shawshank Redemption", but we all wish we were Darabont or King sometimes.

* * *

><p>There's an easy way about me.<p>

Someone told me once, I know it now.

I wonder how I look to the passing ambler.

I must look strange, I've decided,

the hands-in-denim-pockets type,

a funny sort of gentleman who's been to Hell and back due to a little mix-up

and doesn't mind a bit,

thinks himself the better for it.

I laugh out loud.

I'm a fugitive, how absurd.

I'm a renegade now, without a single crime to show for it.

Doesn't anyone else find that amusing?

Red would get it.

I wonder how he's doing.

Every now and again I think I see him

(in my peripheral vision, which isn't very good)

and when I turn around, it's not Ellis Redding,

the only guilty man in Shawshank,

Ellis Redding, the only friend I ever knew.

I'm patient, though,

and if he's as sharp as I gave him credit for,

he knows where to find me.

There's something about him that's different,

the reason I took a liking to him and not to Heywood or Floyd.

When I figure out what it is, I'll write it down and let him know as soon as he gets here.

By here, I mean where I'm going.

I've nearly reached the border now, and I'll send him a postcard.

Old Red will get a kick out of that.

And it's not just Red I think I see sometimes, either.

Last night

(upon leaving my hotel, for I'm Mr. Stevens now, you remember)

I nearly knocked over a stately man in wire-rim glasses with cold eyes

and an iron jaw.

He stomped off before I could apologize.

I must have looked something awful, I'd seen a ghost, after all.

Don't worry, Andy,

I tell myself,

The papers say he won't bother you anymore.

You're a free man now, Andy Dufresne, they say,

and whatever happened in that horrible place is history.

You've done it, Andy, he can't touch you.

Funny the things you notice are missing when they're gone,

I wonder how many packs of smokes Red won

when the old warden up and shot himself.

Good old Red.


	2. Small Deeds Don't Go Unnoticed

I slipped a beggar a twenty this morning.

A life is only good if it touches other lives,

But what do I know?

I don't exist.

That's exactly why I do it.

Randall Stevens is just a name.

Andy Dufresne is gone now,

But he exists in the things I do-

The young accountant is a phantom

drifting through,

dropping dollar bills in empty cups,

trying to make do by slipping under the radar.

I have escaped, but

It's not a chase if you're not running.


	3. Rainstorm

When

I was a kid,

I'd wake up in the summer and

run to the window

(the way some children ran to their windows in winter)

to see whether it had rained the night before.

And when it had,

the grass was wet

and the air tasted thick

and it was everything I ever hoped for.

When it rained at night, I'd stay up for hours

just lying there, listening to the rain.

A rainstorm

would be my salvation.

So I listen now to the rain,

and I hope it rains often in Zihuatanejo.

I've come so far

and yet, not far enough.

Tomorrow, I'll be worlds away from

where I've spent my life,

thundering toward my home.

Farewell, Maine.

See you soon, Red.


	4. Andrew Dufresne, was it?

I had a conversation this morning

with some city slicker-

a hot shot banker kid.

He reminded me of you-know-who.

You know who.

He and I-

I, Mr. Stevens-

we were talking about that escaped convict from Maine,

the banker who shot his wife.

I didn't know who he was talking about.

"Enlighten me."

He said he must be somewhere around here.

Here, New Hampshire.

"They'll get him," he said,

with a self-assured grin.

"Will they now?"

He thought I was patronizing.

"Sure they will, these people never get far."

"These people?"

"Cons. They're not educated people like you or I.

They never knew any better, that's why they do it."

"This man…

ah, Andrew Dufresne…

Was that it?"

Apparently, it was.

"He used to be a banker, right? He must be clever."

"I guess," the hotshot said.

After a while, he left.

I paid for his coffee.

He carried himself the way Red once thought I had.

I never knew everything.

All through my years,

I acknowledged that I don't,

and I think it's as close as anyone's ever come.

New Hampshire is beautiful.

Their prison is in the mountains, though-

I guess all those times I said to myself things could have been worse,

they really could have.

There's not a lot of city here,

more country,

less newspapers

but more time to read.

I'm not worried,

so don't you worry about me either.

The train only works so long, though,

before someone looks up from their paper

and starts to think that fellow across from them

looks like Andrew Dufresne.

I think Stevens needs a car.


	5. Fever

New Hampshire.

Lying low now,

keeping my composure

laying low

is like lying lower

is like lying backwards

is like lying upside-down

is not like lying

at least in my case.

I have reason to believe

I have a serious high-grade fever.

This is where I make the call.

Well-read, I study fiction for fun

and in the hero's journey,

this is called the threshold.

This is the part where I step away

from all I ever knew.

This is the part where I have to fight.

No one said it was easy.

Let's say that Red

and Heywood and Floyd

made a bet.

Two packs of cigarettes.

Red made a bet

I would get away.

I can't let him down.

If I go to a hospital,

despite my name

they'll know about the banker

they'll know exactly who I am.

And Red will lose two packs of cigarettes.

I'll drive through the night instead.

I have a car now.


	6. Freedom in the Air

Shapes distort outside the windows,

images, shadows rush

as I speed toward deliverance.

Oddly enough,

I don't feel as if I'm being followed.

Passing through the forest,

I try to picture the pines in winter:

snow-capped, sleepy woods

and roads less travelled.

The air here is something else-

it's different, lighter, softer.

Maybe it's freedom I'm tasting.

My fever breaks with the day,

the country opens its arms to me.

The sky is spreading.

I am disappearing into mist.

Name, face, body, voice, eyes, lips, skin—gone.

Tabula rasa. Blank slate.

The air will wash me clean

like the rain from the storm,

like the sound

rushing over my ears,

the sound the car makes,

a sound like wind.

I smile

I hope they can picture me smile

As I ride on.


	7. Followed

With every mile, I feel  
>I am closer to salvation<br>And to things harder to understand  
>For men behind bars:<br>Open sky, for one,  
>And pleasure in being alone.<br>I read once that the worst of men  
>Are seldom noticed,<br>That they slip into the crowd  
>And hide unseen.<br>So it must be with good men too.  
>I saw a white car today.<br>I saw it again about a hundred miles  
>Down the highway.<br>I'll lose him soon enough.


End file.
